


Chekhov's Gun

by round_robin



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Gen, Not Canon Compliant, Sad, don't hate me, not series two compatable
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-17
Updated: 2012-06-17
Packaged: 2017-11-07 23:57:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/436848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/round_robin/pseuds/round_robin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Pink Lady wasn't the fourth victim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chekhov's Gun

**Author's Note:**

> Not betaed or Brit-picked, so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> I really, really have no clue why I wrote this. It was just one of those ideas that wouldn't go away... I take full responsibility for any terrible feelings that I cause.

The flashing lights outside the window sent a little thrill of glee through Sherlock. Standing in his new flat (that he couldn’t really afford the rent on alone; Mrs. Hudson owed him a favor, but she wasn’t just giving a place like this away) he was previously occupied with thoughts of how he might actually have to ask Mycroft for help on this one. He really needed a flatshare, but really, who would want him for a flatmate?

But now the police car out front deleted those worries for a moment. The footsteps on the stairs only confirmed it: heavy, yet quick tread, a little bit of a stutter-step on the first stair owing to too much coffee that day and too much stress overall. Detective Inspector Lestrade.

“Four,” he whispered to himself. Those suicides in the paper, there’d been three already. All exactly the same. He’d been bugging the Yard for days to call him and now they finally had. That could mean only one thing: there’d been a fourth. And something was different about this one.

Sherlock turned, trying to hide his smirk. “Where?” He said before Lestrade could even open his mouth.

“Brixton. Lauriston Gardens.” He said. Lestrade didn’t need to ask how Sherlock knew. Why else would he be here?

“What’s different about this one?” There had to be something different. After weeks of ignoring him, they wouldn’t suddenly break down if something wasn’t different now. Sherlock loved the differences, they made his job much more fun. “You wouldn’t come and get me if there wasn’t something different.”

“You know how they never leave notes?”

“Yes.”

“This one did.” Sherlock had learned long ago that actually smiling over grisly murder in front of the police was a one way ticket to lock up for the night. Lestrade was different, of course, but still best not to break a good habit.

“Will you come?” Lestrade asked. It was a formality at this point. Of course Sherlock would come. Four bodies and then a note? Yeah, he would come.

“Who’s on forensics?” Yes, he should pretend like he was still deciding. A case like this was almost too good to pass up, but if he came too easily, Lestrade might get the idea that he was at the Yard’s beck and call.

After a quick discussion about Anderson and his need for an assistant that would actually work with him (he’d yet to find one and had pretty much given up on it) Sherlock agreed to go. As soon as Lestrade was gone, he indulged in a little happy moment before pulling on his coat and running out of the flat with a few last words to Mrs. Hudson on his way.

 

~

 

This was different. Very different. Deliciously, amazingly different, so different that it sent Sherlock’s hard drive whirring in beautiful arcs. It was better than any hit he’d ever taken. This, the work, made him feel alive.

Yet it was wrong. So wrong.

The man settled against the wall—a soldier, just returned from military service in Iraq or Afghanistan—he looked calm. Peaceful. The last three victims (had to be victims, people don’t just start killing themselves in the very same way for the fun of it) were all huddled in a corner or sprawled down on the floor as if they were recovering from a fit, their faces tight or pinched with fear. That was one of the many things that made Sherlock doubt the serial suicide idea: they were all afraid. Real suicides weren’t afraid of what they were doing. They’d been preparing themselves for it, building up to the point where this final pill set them free and all their earthly worries didn’t matter anymore. The first three victims looked nothing like that.

But this man did.

Leaning quietly against the wall, his hands crossed over his lap, he looked like he’d planned this. Like he welcomed death. Well, if he was a soldier, he probably had some sort of PTSD that would make thoughts of suicide a normal thing. But if he wanted to die, why the note?

Five numbers were scratched into the floor on his right side, his keys next to the numbers and little wood shavings curled up around him. Clever man, he knew he’d never be able to carve the numbers with his fingernails—short, serviceable, efficient, another mark of a military man—so he went for the only sharp object he had.

Just five numbers. 71126. The six was a little shaky, as that was when the poison probably started taking effect, but it was all there plain as day. A number like that would most likely be a cab number. He’d have Lestrade look it up in a minute, he was too fascinated by this man.

Late thirties by the look of him, not a tall man, but very sturdy and solid. Sherlock would even go as far as to call him a sort of attractive. Thinking back to the other victims, he tried to see if that was relevant; was the killer doing it out of jealousy? Killing men he thought more handsome than himself, and women who wouldn’t give him a chance? No, that was an induction. Sherlock didn’t hold with that sort of thing.

“What have you got?” Lestrade asked. He stood just behind Sherlock wearing the obnoxious blue crime scene pajamas. Sherlock refused to let those horrible things anywhere near him.

When he didn’t say anything, Lestrade got testy. “I said two minutes,” he snapped. “I need anything you’ve got.”

Sherlock sighed. He was done collecting the data, he just didn’t know where it all added up to yet. Really, he didn’t want to give Lestrade the painting when he was only half way through, but the Yard was frequently impatient with him. Impatient and stupid.

“He’s a soldier,” he said. “Recently invalided home from Afghanistan or Iraq.”

“Invalided home?” Lestrade asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, crouching down to get a closer look at the man’s hands. So calm a posture… not the typical death respite, but close enough. He wasn’t posed, he positioned himself like this. Calm, relaxed in death, almost accepting it. Why? “He has an alcoholic brother who’s worried about him, but he won’t ask him for help,” Sherlock had had a look at his mobile earlier. Stuffed into his left-hand pocket—so a leftie—but the numbers were scratched with his right.

“He’s left handed, but he wrote the numbers with his right. And he’s a marksman.” Probably a decent one too, if he can shoot ambidextrously like that. “Though he was an army doctor, so he would never kill a man in cold blood without damn good reason. Strong moral principle.”

“Doctor?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes; why were they always ten steps behind?

“Yes, obvious, isn’t it?” He couldn’t get any more from the hands so he stood up and started looking around.

“Obvious? And how did you get invalided home?” Glancing down at the body, Lestrade looked by didn’t observe. Like usual. “He looks fine.”

Eyes still wandering the rest of the room, Sherlock pointed to the body’s right shoe. “Scuff marks on his right shoe indicate a limp. Calluses on his right hand indicate that he had a cane. Where is it, by the way?” He didn’t see one when he came in. They must have taken it away already. He hated when they removed evidence before he’d had a look at it. “That also points to doctor: any sort of gait-correcting implement is supposed to be used opposite the injury. Doctors always ignore things like that.”

Lestrade’s jaw had dropped open by now, but Sherlock kept going. “He’s got a suntan, but no tan above the wrists. Abroad, but not sunbathing. Haircut is military, so that means army doctor recently returned home from Afghanistan or Iraq.

“Where’s his cane?” Sherlock asked. His coat swirled as he turned to finally look at Lestrade. “Where have you taken it?”

“There was no cane,” Lestrade said.

Sherlock had already dropped his gaze back to the body, and those words sent a thrill up his spine. He brought his eyes up to Lestrade, knowing that the manic glee was already showing. There was no hiding it this time. “Say that again.”

Lestrade shrugged. “There was no cane.”

Anyone who saw the slow smile that crept across Sherlock’s face would call it creepy. Sherlock would call it satisfied. “Of course,” he sighed; he could already feel the jolt of a case solves pumping through his veins. “He left it in the cab. So we could find the killer.”

“The cab?” Lestrade asked.

“What killer?” Ah, Anderson. Sherlock tried not to roll his eyes. “This is clearly a suicide! Look at his—”

“Yes, thank you for your input,” Sherlock said as he quickly made his way across the room and slammed the door in Anderson’s face. That man lowered the IQ of the whole street.

“Sherlock,” Lestrade moved to get right in his line of sight. Irritated, tired, and so very blue… “What cane? What cab?”

“That cab,” Sherlock pointed down to the number. “That’s the driver’s ID number. When he knew he was going to die, he checked the driver’s ID number and left his cane in the taxi.” If the driver didn’t notice he was walking funny without it, the limp was probably psychosomatic. “It’s a thin piece of metal, he probably tucked it under the seat and the cabbie didn’t even notice. It’s probably still there.

“Find that number and you’ll find the killer. They’re serial killings, all of them.” He didn’t know how, but they were. If he didn’t have something else on his mind right now, Sherlock would probably insist on being allowed to speak to the man once they found him, but he had elsewhere to be now…

“Alright,” Lestrade nodded. “We’ll look up that cabbie. If he’s got a cane in his car, that’s him I guess. Thanks a lot, Sherlock.” He turned to go. No, Sherlock couldn’t have that.

“I’d like to see his flat.” He said before Lestrade could get too far.

He arched one silver eyebrow at Sherlock. “Why? You’ve solved it, why do you need more?”

Sherlock shrugged. He wanted Lestrade to think this was a passing curiosity. After all, he’d just solved the case. Surely he could get a small quid-pro-quo? “Leaving the cab number like that, and planting his cane. He was a smart man. I’d simply like to know more about him.”

Lestrade’s nose wrinkled. Just a bit, but it was there. Everyone down at the Yard was highly suspect of Sherlock, and though Lestrade was the least suspicious of them all, he was still put off by some of Sherlock more… eccentric requests.

“Oh c’mon!” Sherlock sighed. “I just solved you four murders and caught you a serial killer.”

With a nod, Lestrade relented. He texted Sherlock the man’s address and went to track down that cab. There was a defeated sort of slump to his shoulders; he knew Sherlock would be right. Again.

Sherlock could care less what happened next. Just another case to him. And not a very challenging one. True, he was curious as to how the man got them to take the poison, but he’d hoped it would’ve been more challenging. Hopefully this fellow’s flat would help him solve the other nagging thoughts at the back of his mind.

It was a tiny, yet serviceable little flat. Probably provided by the government. Sherlock let himself in (the lock on the door was child’s play) and started having a look around. The man’s meager belongings explained more to him than he thought they would, which was a surprising thought for Sherlock to have.

Nothing of personal or sentimental value could be seen. Just a small kitchenette, a bed, and a desk. The victim was a lonely man. After being invalided home, being declared unfit for his chosen career, it was understandable. Sherlock knew about loneliness. Far too well most times.

He himself had gone the opposite way: stuffing his lonely life with anything he could get his hands on—cases, experiments, books, drugs… anything to keep the emptiness away. Emptiness of mind, mostly, as Sherlock had learned long ago that friends were a luxury he couldn’t afford, and didn’t need.

A small bookshelf stood on the wall at the end of the bed, filled with medical texts and science fiction novels. Had he known this man, maybe even had him for a flatmate, Sherlock would’ve considered the social inconvenience more than paid for because of the access to all these medical volumes. He had subscriptions to all the relevant medical journals, of course, but there was something about having all these books meant for doctors that would be a boom to his research and his work.

Taking one of the books, he sat down on the bed and started thumbing through it. Little notes in the margins and streaks of highlighter confirmed Sherlock’s earlier conclusion: this man—while not a genius like himself—was intelligent. Dare he even think intelligent enough to keep pace with him? Well, maybe not, but intelligent enough to stimulate Sherlock’s own genius, that was for sure.

But something was still off. The way he’d found the body: so calm and relaxed, like he was going to sleep. He needed to know why that was. The state of this flat made it more than obvious, but Sherlock wanted that last bit of proof. That obvious piece that would explain everything to him…

He returned the book to the shelf and walked over to the desk. Opening the top drawer, he found the first personal object in the whole flat: a laptop.

Pulling it out of the drawer, he studied it. New-ish, probably purchased after he returned. It was well taken care of, which was a given. The one personal item in this terrible little flat wouldn’t be treated with irreverence.

Sherlock set the laptop down on the desk and looked back in the drawer, where he found the second personal item. A handgun.

Everything slotted neatly into place right then. Gun and laptop kept together: the one personal item he bought for himself right next to another item, kept for a very different reason. That’s what was different. Obvious. Sherlock didn’t know why he’d allowed his brain to dance around the thought.

His mobile rang just then. A quick glance at the screen said it was Lestrade, so Sherlock supposed he should pick it up. “Sherlock Holmes,” he said.

“You were right, a cabbie. We’ve got him.” Lestrade’s voice said. The tension he’d been carrying at the crime scene was gone now. He no longer cared that Sherlock had been right, not as long as they had their man and could tell the press that everything was safe again. “He wants to speak with you.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course he does,” he was a serial killer with a flair for the dramatic. Of course he wanted to meet the man who’d brought him down.

“Did you find what you needed at the victim’s flat?” Lestrade asked.

He looked down at the gun again, still sitting quietly in the drawer, as if it weren’t being kept for some horrible purpose. So its owner could end it all when the loneliness finally got too crushing. “Yes.” He said. “There was something different about this body and I wanted to know.”

“What was different?”

Sherlock took a breath. “The killer, he was targeting random people. None of them really looked like suicides,” body language told a lot, even after death. “None except this man.

“He was planning on killing himself. That’s why he looked so calm.” Lestrade probably didn’t know what he was talking about, but that didn’t matter. “The cabbie got lucky: he found someone who actually was suicidal.”

“I suppose it was sort of inevitable in a place like London.” Lestrade said.

“Yes,” he nodded. “Well, if that’s all? I’ll be down to see your serial killer in an hour.” Without waiting for Lestrade’s goodbye, Sherlock hung up and slipped his phone back in his pocket.

It brushed against the victim’s. So he’d lifted it from the crime scene? Wasn’t the first time… Now, he was rather wondering what he’d have to do to get the man’s cane. It was silly, but he wanted it. He wanted to keep the few personal effects owned by this poor, lonely man, who would’ve ended up with his brains splattered all over this dingy little flat. Maybe it wouldn’t have been soon, but eventually, he would’ve been just another city suicide.

For some reason, Sherlock couldn’t help but think how much of a shame it was…

He gathered up the laptop and the gun. Giving the room one more glance, he pulled the one photo album off the book shelf—he’d missed it earlier. He wanted to look through that as well, and it wasn’t like anyone would miss it.

With these things tucked under his arm, Sherlock Holmes quietly left the flat of the late Dr. John H. Watson. Suicidal fourth victim of London’s newly apprehended serial killer.

The End


End file.
